


Caught Out Caught You

by orphan_account



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Angst, Animal Transformation, Anxiety, Blood, Cooking, Family Drama, Food, Hunting, Loneliness, M/M, Suicide, description of dead animals, devin the dog, full wolf shifts, peter is trapped in wolf form
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-20
Updated: 2017-02-20
Packaged: 2018-09-18 16:58:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9394601
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: Chris knew this part of the park like the back of his hand. Kisatchie national preserve was a giant sprawling mass of natural beauty. The whole state of Louisiana had its quirks. There was something mystical about the bayous, whole savannas inaccessible but by boat. Enough regular old animals out to kill you, that it quelled the craving for a supernatural discovery.Chris gets away from his family and starts a new life far away from the world of wolfsbane, werewolves and hunting. He quickly learns that leaving such things behind is not as easy as he first thought.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic ended up being a two chapter exploration into Chris' self imposed isolation, and Peter disrupting that in his own way.   
> (Warnings - spoilers - at the end)

  
  


###  Things Were Quieter Before You Came Here.

  
  


Chris is getting too old for this shit.

 

He whistles a clear long note for Devin, his Chesapeake retriever, to circle back to him. The normally reasonable dog barks in response, still out in the woods somewhere.

 

"What's going on with that mutt." Chris grumbles. It was unfair to call Devin a mutt, as he was in fact a purebred hunting dog. He'd been in the first litter of puppies Chris' old companion had let six years ago. Devin was a good working dog, and a slightly soppy companion. Sometimes Chris wonders that if he ever got burgled, whether Devin would just give the thief sloppy kisses instead of fighting him off. But all the same, it was nice to have a dog with a sweet temperament.

 

"Sweeter temperament than you've got." He chides himself, wandering off to where the dog had been calling.

 

Chris knew this part of the park like the back of his hand. Kisatchie national preserve was a giant sprawling mass of natural beauty. The whole state of Louisiana had its quirks. There was something mystical about the bayous, whole savannas inaccessible but by boat. Enough regular old animals out to kill you, that it quelled the craving for a supernatural discovery.

 

_ Chris didn't hunt that kind of game anymore. _

 

But the Catahoula Ranger district was his playground. He hunted stout and some boar, to keep the populations down. And kept an eye out for off season deer hunters. The groundskeeper of Redrook grove was not known for being merciful to those who broke the hunt laws.

 

The job was one he'd picked up through convenience over desire, but it suited him well enough. A decent amount of human interaction with those who knew the life (hunters, trackers, bird watchers) and enough silence to keep him sharp. There was only so much meeting happy young families that he could take these days.

 

As he followed the tracks of his dog, Chris began to see a second trail. Something big. Heavier than deer, but delicate enough that it had picked its footing along the undergrowth. At one point he thought he saw a footprint, the heavy ball of the foot piercing the soft soil. The morning's rain had ruined the shape however, making it unclear.

 

Chris had found a lot of humans in the woods, especially this far out from the main footpaths. Every year there was a handful of stupid college students, lost campers and at least one stag party who had abandoned their groom to the wilderness. Most of the time they're a bit dehydrated and scared, but good to send home.

 

Then there's the suicides. Like clockwork they come, sometimes two in a month, never longer than seven weeks go by without one. There's the rare drug overdose, the odd jumper off the rocky cliffs that protrude the grounds. But mostly it's hanging. Their wretched bodies drifting in the breeze like a sickening wind chime. Chris had vomited the first time he'd seen one. It'd be wrong to say the response had lessened.

 

He can taste bile on his tongue as he follows the barks. It's been weeks since he's had to cut someone down.  _ Like clockwork _ .  He's out on the edge of his usual patrol, any further and it becomes the stretch of dead land. Maybe another man with his dog will come along one day and take up its watch, for now he and Devin will have to do.

 

Chris' eyes keep glancing up at the canopy, late afternoon light still bursting through the leaves. He's waiting for when he can see it. Them. Probably a woman, young. They often are here. The men tend to be older. Mothers tend to have responsibilities they can't shirk. Not all of them. Chris found a baby once. Dead. A miracle it hadn't been ripped apart by predators. A mongoose would do that and worst in ten minutes. Still dead though, miracles aside. The child's mother hung above her. Chris was sick that day too.

 

_ Like clockwork. _

 

Devin is barking more aggressively now. Chris thinks he's particularly distressed. Maybe he's hurt.

 

"Hey boy," he calls when he sees the dog running backwards and forwards. Patrolling a tree, he knows there's something on the other side of it. "Devin," he calls, stern. "Here." The dog comes to his side, tail still stiff and straight out from his body. Chris makes his way to the left, so he can see what is the dog has found.

 

It's not a body.

 

In the end, he'll probably decide that what he found was worst. But for now he's just so relieved it’s not a body.

 

He's not been out of the game long enough to think that this is a regular wolf however.

 

"What the fuck is something like you doing here." He shouts, grabbing Devin's collar as the dog walks forward to investigate.

 

The wolf growls low in the throat. Its lip curls in a snarl, an endless array of sharp teeth on show. Chris does not doubt that if he or Devin gets any closer, the sooty grey wolf would take a limb.

 

He's never seen a Beta shift to a full wolf before, and this thing is definitely not an Alpha. Not with eyes that blue.  _ A killer, then. _ Chris isn't carrying any wolfsbane, although he has a box back at his cabin.  _ He's not stupid enough to think that nothing supernatural could find him here. _ So the shotgun he's carrying would do little to the wolf in front of him.

 

There's a lot blood around the base of the tree, and he can see something lead out from beneath the creature. Some kind of barbed wire that's caught on a root. The wolf appears keen to hide it from him, but it must be enough to trap him. Otherwise Chris would probably be dead now.

 

"Shit." Chris sighs, he has no fucking idea what he's supposed to do now.

 

The thing looks feral, and he's not completely sure if it can understand him. An omega maybe. Something must have happened to make it shift so. He grabs a long stick and tries to brush away some of the leaf litter that is obscuring the wire. Perhaps in defence, or because Chris caused it pain, the wolf whips around and snaps the thick branch clean in half.

 

Devin goes mad. Barking, and threatening to go for the wolf. "Shh, easy boy." Devin had never met something supernaturally strong, and it was obviously riling him.

 

Without losing his sights on the wolf Chris drags the dog away. Pulling the rarely used leash out of his jacket's deep pockets, and securing him to a tree some yards away. Devin and the wolf are still growling at each other, and Chris can almost find the situation humorous.

 

“Quiet, I said  _ quiet  _ Devin.”

 

When he gets close again the wolf returns its full attention to him, sharp claws peaking visibly from between the soft furred paws.

 

Chris crouches about a metre away. "I know what you are." He says to the wolf. The wolf just growls louder, perhaps a sign it can understand him. "Yeah, and I have the feeling you know what I am too."

 

The wolf finally decides to go for him, lurching up. Chris starts to skid backwards, sure he's about to be maimed. But the wolf stops short in a whine, as the metal wire digs closer into it's flesh, and sprays more blood into its already matted fur.

 

"Shit." Chris shouts. Getting up, and brushing the mud off his hands. He was stupid for staying here unarmed. He just desperately doesn't want to leave the wolf here. Fuck knows what might happen if it gets loose or someone else finds it. But without any wolfsbane, he has little else recourse.

 

He walks back over to his sable hound, keeping the leash tight around his hand in case Devin decides to go for the beast.

 

"I'm going to get my supplies," he tells it. "If you happen to not be here when I get back - if you get the fuck out of this forest, and out of this state... I might just let you go." The wolf is still growling, but it's staring at him all the same. "You understand me, werewolf?"

 

It does nothing but snarl.  
  


* * *

 

Chris is unpacking his tools in confident unhurried moves. There was no point in rushing, it only made you sloppy. Devin was pining at the door, scratching it. Trying to tell Chris that  _ the thing  _ was still out there.

 

"I know Devin, settle down." There was little point though, the dog was completely on edge.  _ Maybe I shouldn't take him back out there. _

 

He looks at his canine friend. The dog had grown out of being a puppy in a matter of weeks, but had always retained his soft features. He was a cuter dog than his mother. Nothing pleased him more than bounding back to Chris with waterfowl in his mouth, bringing his master prey.  _ If he goes for the wolf, he won't make it. _

 

"Here boy." Chris takes him into the bedroom, a bowl of fresh water and a bloody bone for company. He isn't hurt by Devin's whines when he knows it could save the dog.

 

As he loads up the empty casings with dried wolfsbane (two different strains, twice the time it'd take to heal) his eyes stray to the phone in his desk draw. It's switched off, as always, but should have charge if he turns it on. He should call his father about this. It'll probably be easier on everyone if he just calls his father now.

 

He doesn't.

 

He continues putting together his kit with a heavy mind. He doesn't want to put down the wolf, not right now anyway. Chris knows he should in the end. Knows that his hand hasn't wavered the hundred of times a wolf has been at the end of a gun.

 

_ I gave up that job. For a reason. _

 

Chris mulls over his decision as he walks back to the site. He crosses Redrook grove where his cabin stands and into Catahoula district proper. Thankfully the wolf is far out towards the dead land, the nearest public footpath over half an acre away. Chris finds it easier to track the beast this time, leading out from the unmanned thicket. Through the deepest part of the forest however it'd be hard to know where it originated from even if he tracks it. 

 

At one point it was definitely in human guise, but gave over to the shift. He finds splattering of blood over some stones. Dry now. It confirms that the wolf grappled with the trap in its human hands, before the pain pushed it into a canine form.

 

_ Curious. _

 

When he gets back, the wolf is in a worst way. It appeared to at least try to leave.  _ To kill you, or to run. No difference really. Not to a beast. _ There's now a lot more blood in its fur, and a certain amount across its muzzle.  _ It tried to chew itself out.  _ It was sad really, pathetic. It might be kinder of Chris to put it down.

 

"You aint in a good way wolf." He says softly, his gun over his arm. The wolf snarls at him, eyes stuck to the weapon. Chris knows it can smell the contents of the bullets. It's eyes are a little glazed now, probably the after effects of the blood loss.  _ It'd probably be kinder to put it down. _

 

Chris gets out a little bottle. The wolf's eyes dart between it and the gun. "You know what this is?" He asks, it was maddening not knowing if the wolf understood him. The clear fluid held a medical anaesthesia imbibed with wolfsbane. It would put the wolf under. With his gun pointed at the wolf’s neck, he walks slowly up towards the beast. Its growls get louder with every step. " _Easy_ _boy, easy._ " Chris hears himself cooing.

 

He pulls out a bowl from his bag and drops it down near the wolf's muzzle. The beast jumps and growls, but then sniffs it with slight interested. When Chris gets out a bottle of water it goes quiet. "Yeah, I bet you're thirsty."

 

Chris is sorely tempted to just give the wolf some, a small kindness. But in the long run it'd be easier on them both if he didn't make them wait so long. He tips the wolfsbane into the water, to the chorus of the wolf growling again. Edging forward as much as he dares, Chris shakes the bottle, and pours it into the bowl. If the wolf wasn't so exhausted, it could probably go for him right now. Thankfully it is too interested in flinching away from the splashing water.

 

Finally Chris returns to a safe distance, dropping himself down to the ground. He keeps his gun, loaded and cocked, by his side. But draws out a paperback book to read. The wolf lets out a long low growl.

 

"Yeah I know. But the sooner you give in, the sooner we can both get on." The wolf snorts loudly, perhaps in distaste, and moves away from the bowl to the best of its ability. Chris notes that it doesn't attempt to spill the water. Suggesting that it is considering the options available. He hopes so anyway. Either way, Chris is aware he's in for a long wait.

 

Two chapters in and Chris shuffles over to a tree so he can lean against it. The wolf watches him, its blue eyes calmer now, but still glazed. Every now and again birds flutter through the forest, or a deer picks its way closer towards them. Chris enjoys watching the wolf's ears flick about, tracking the sounds even when the eyes cannot. It's a beautiful animal, a snow white face that bleeds into dark grey coat on the body. Fine white legs, that show up blood with ease. Chris has never before had unbridled access to a shifted were like this.

 

Six chapters in and the beast tries to make a break for it again. It's a sorry sight to watch. Every time it tries to drag itself forward, the metal slices deeper into its leg. The ferocious growls are offset by how much pain the wolf is in.

 

The wire trap embeds deeper each time it is stressed. Chris hears the moment the wolf breaks its own leg trying to escape. 

 

Chris has heard the sound before, there has been a lot of animals he's put out of their misery.  _ Maybe it would be kinder.  _ A deer’s spinal column, a hare’s ribcage. A man’s neck. 

 

_ Like clockwork.  _

 

Our bones only ever sing songs of pain. 

 

The beast is quiet now, slumped in the leaf little. Deep ragged breaths the only sound, pitiful when compared to the thundering growls Chris had just been privy to. He turns a page of his book slowly. The wolf is staring at him, its eyes sly and clever even with a glassy cover. If Chris was going to kill it, it should be now. When it was weak, in pain, slow to heal. 

 

He turns another page.

 

Chris isn’t reading the words, just looking at them. The way they sit against the mottled paper, water damage around the edge. He doesn’t move when he sees the wolf drag itself back to the bowl. He hears the small whines of pain each time weight is forced on its broken hind leg. 

 

The wolf drinks. 

 

In minutes it is unconscious. 

 

Now Chris is responsible for it. For the man inside if it even still exists. It’s not going to be an easy night no matter what happens. The burden falls heavy on his shoulders.

 

_ Like clockwork.  _

  
  
  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: (spoilers)  
> Description of suicide, particular hanging. Mention of vomit.  
> Mention of a dead child.  
> Peter (as wolf) is in pain. Blood. Broken leg.
> 
> \---------------------
> 
> What did you think? How was my Chris? This is only every my second ever try at writing him, so I hope it worked out.
> 
> Please comment & kudos. I really helps me keep writing. (:


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Chris brings a wolf into his home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I decided to let this fic play out how I like it to: slow and thick with description. Normally I try to keep pretty close to the action, but I'm using this story to have a look into Chris' life.
> 
> I love writing food, so that's what you've got this time  
> (Warnings/spoilers at the end)

###  It’s Never Enough When You’re The One Punishing Yourself.

 

Devin is barking the house down when he returns to the cabin. Chris is tempted to go check on him, but his arms are full of unconscious wolf. If the beast woke now before he had the chance to dose him again Chris would very likely die in his own house. 

 

The wolf was heavy, it was like carrying a full grown man home. He’d hoped he would have been able to detangle the creature in the woods, but the trap was too tight. At least he was able to use a pair of pliers to clip it open so the wolf was no longer trapped to the tree. 

 

He sets the body on his workbench. Ignoring the fact that normally the animal that resided there was dead. The cabin’s smell filled with the scent of blood and wolf. A dusty wood-sey cologne, underlined with iron. Chris wastes no time re-dosing the creature. It would be best if his dangerous companion didn’t awake.

 

A kettle of hot water on the little stove and a set of delicate knives and scalpels.  _ Not unlike his tools for hunting game.  _ Some of the wolf’s flesh had tried to heal over the trap, that’s what had it so deep. It was definitely designed to happen that way. A barbed fine wire that tightened the more you stressed it. 

 

This was a hunter’s trap. You didn’t find this kind of thing at even the more niche game stores. Not something with wolfsbane twined into the metal. 

 

Why would there a wolf in his forest, and why did other hunters expect there to be?

 

Chris looks at the draw with the phone in it again. It would make most sense to call his father now. To find out what was happening… Gerard would take the wolf off his hands as well. Tie up the loose ends, let Chris get back to his caretaking. 

 

The wolf’s life for his own freedom didn’t seem like the most unjust sacrifice. Not with blue eyes. 

 

_ Gerard Argent wasn’t known for his kindness: it would be better to hand over a body than a prisoner.  _

 

Devin whined in the bedroom, his paws scraping at the door. For a second, Chris had thought it was the beast. The sounds not disimilar to the sound of pain as it broke its leg. Chris had never thought of himself as one for mercy. Not for killers. 

 

_ Blue eyes.  _

 

He takes a clip point blade the the wolf’s lax leg, pushing the blade of the knife into the healed flesh. Skinning down almost down to the bone, that’s how deep the trap went. Blood wells over the blade and he dips a clean cloth into the hot water and dabs the area. The sharp knife takes away a flap of flesh easily. If it wasn’t a wolf beneath his hands he’d be more careful of cutting ligament, but he has faith in the healing abilities that will come afterwards. 

 

Six places he has to dig out the wire, clipping it each time he reveals the metal. It’s a finicky thing, a sprung coil wrapping it tight each time he moves it. When they wolf’s leg is finally free he grips it in his hand and snaps it back into position. The bone has unfortunately begun to heal at the wrong angle, so he has to break it again. 

 

The wolf’s breath is laboured even under the drugs, and he’s slightly worried that it might wake. Luckily bandaging the leg with a splint is quick work and within the hour his job is done. He drops all his tools into a pot of hot water, and wraps the wolf in a blanket. Mindful of the leg, he lumbers over to the steel cage he has in the corner. A relic from when he was training Devin. Heavy duty as Chris was never too confident that he wouldn’t end up in this position. 

 

_ Blue eyes. Blue eyed killer in his livingroom. _

 

Finally he is done. He let’s Devin out the bedroom and collapses into the well worn armchair in the corner, the fabric patched with strips of deer hide; the cushions plump with goose feathers. It was one of the first items he’d made when he got here. Stricken with loss and no clear future ahead of him, the daily routine of getting up and working on it his only lifeline. Metti, his old retriever, sitting piously by the door. Since then he’s made a whole couch and several other pieces of furniture. Funny how emptiness can facilitate creation. Chris looks down at his carpenter's hands,  _ a hunter’s hand _ , marred with marks from slipped tools, scared animals and one noticeable bullet graze.  He has blood under his nails, residue soaked into the cuticles. Chris is not normally squeamish, but something about it turns his stomach. 

 

Devin is sniffing around the cage, sticking his long snout between the bars.

 

“Tsk,  _ away _ .” The dog takes a few steps back but keeps patrolling around cage in the corner. He’s calmer now the wolf is asleep, but clearly unimpressed by their visitor.

 

“Me and you both Devin.” Chris snorts. 

 

He is hungry, he hasn’t eaten since his early lunch that day and that was nothing but some cured meats in some rough sourdough bread. He should really prepare one of the pheasants he has had hanging above his sink. One of them has been there for a week already, not a bad time for the fatty meat but any longer and it might spoil. But he is tired, the day has been more eventful than whole week stretches in his usual life at the cabin. Devin wines at his heel, perhaps in misery over their house guest or just because he was left at home for so long.

 

“You soppy fool.” He pats the dog’s wide hard scull, before pulling himself back to the workbench, cleaning it down from animal hospital and setting it up again for gutting. The old pheasant is easy to pluck dry, the pins giving under Chris’ experienced hands. The long tail feathers shed from the air dried skin, each time the stem giving over to the pull of Chris’ hand it makes a small puckered noise of satisfaction. 

 

He’s stripped a whole wing when he sees blue eyes watching him. The wolf is still wheezing, has been since he found it, and its mouth isn’t fully closed. Chris isn’t even certain it’s actually awake, maybe just looking out through unseeing glassy eyes. He looks over at Devin who was laying next to the cage, either to guard the wolf or protect Chris, he wouldn’t really know. The silly dog had always chosen the strangest of friends. A small fox last summer that Devin had played with instead of eating, an owl that he’d sat and watched instead of chasing. It didn’t matter, for every friend made there were hundreds dead. He was a good hunting dog all the same.

 

It made Chris smile, the way the two beasts watched him. It made the wolf less threatening - not that Chris would take a risk - but it stopped its presence being a harbinger of bad news in Chris’ little world. Just another creature that got stuck in a trap. Just another gift from his woodland exile. 

 

Living self sustained relies on routine. When the bird was finished he guts it efficiently, setting aside the offal and organs. Devin whines by the cage, which makes the wolf huff in its drowsed state. Chris indulges, holding out some stringing gut from his fingers that Devin scurries to lap up. 

 

He cleans the bird up and dries it, stuffing the chest cavity with newspaper and placing it inside a deep cigar box. Chris rubs off the date on the top, and writes in charcoal from his furnace the new date before entering his dark pantry. There’s no natural light in here, the walls a thick concrete he made for himself, traps the cold well. There’s a deep freezer in the corner with stores for winter, for now he just places the box on the wooden shelves and swaps it for the one already sitting there with the oldest date. 

 

Keeping your stores full means constantly moving the stocks around. He returned to the his kitchen and opens the little hatch over the chimney breast where smoke runs up. He removes the smoked meat and places them in a tin tray lined with baking paper, separating the cuts so they don’t touch before placing them in the pantry too.  _ His father had taught him how to smoke game _ .

 

He decides to roast the aged pheasant. First burning off the little hairs and feathers left on the skin with a kerosene lighter before soaking it in some sugar water and bay leaves. The smell soaks into the cabin, finally covering up the scent of blood and replacing it with the bitter taste of burnt skin. While it soaked he skinned and gutted a rabbit he caught earlier before brining it in salt, and cutting it into chunks. He adds the offal to his pile from the pheasant. The flesh is slippery when he skewers it on the little hooks in his chimney, glistening with salt particles. Chris throws some bay leaves and straw in the fire to flavour the smoke that runs up the brick and past the meat. 

 

Everything he does is in a rhythm, using up supplies and preparing new ones to replace them. Like neat little cogs pushing along his existence. You can’t ever stop, incase the rot gets in, and suddenly it’s winter and you have nothing to eat. He has a dog to look after, it’s motivation to keep going.

 

He stuffs the bird with chestnuts he and Devin scavenged a few days prior, and two full heads of wild garlic before basing it in oil and a deep cup of bourbon. He pours himself a glass too, swallowing down the bitter amber that cures his throat like the smoke permeating the cabin. There’s residual adrenalin in his gut from the day, a low burning fear that the wolf at his back will have its jaws around his neck. Unhappy anticipation for the inevitable contact with his family it will wrought. The earthy clay smell of heat against brick saturated with the fresh smell of hay alight drifts through the room however, assuaging him. It gets him more drunk than the alcohol. Chris puts the whole pheasant in a deep tin and in the stove, a few inches from the licking flames.

 

Finally he turns to what he serves the dog,  _ the dogs. _ He wasn’t sure how fresh the wolf would want his meat, so he pan seared the offal in some oil. Setting aside the rabbit liver for himself, before boiling a pan for scolding the smallest of the birds he was hanging. It had been obliterated by the gunshot, a little thing that couldn’t hold up against the hunt. It’s still good for dog meat though, and he plunged it into the hot liquid. Plucking wet bird isn’t so good for the meat, doesn’t allow the skin to pucker properly for cooking, but he wasn’t eating it so fine dining wasn’t an issue. There was now a large pile of feathers set aside for his next project: a new mattress, but he put it out of his mind for now. The bones were set aside too from the small bird, and he guts that one as well, adding the offal to the pan. He poured in a jug of barley into the offal pan, before pouring in some water. The whole thing bubbles, the barley expanding and bulking out the mixture. The actual chunks of pheasant meat he just cut lays on a slab of wood and places it straight in the fire. By the time the barley has cooked the meat is cooked on the edges but bloody in the centre. 

 

The dogs’ dinner takes a few minutes to cool down enough to give to them. The majority of the water has cooked off, and there’s enough to feed both of them heartily and something in the morning. Maybe the wolf will wake up and return to a human visage and thus will reject the meal. Although there’s nothing in it that Chris wouldn’t eat if needed. 

 

Devin starts gobbling his meal as soon as the bowl goes down. Eating like this might be the last meal he’ll ever get. Silly dog. Chris crouches by the cage, and shines a light in the wolf’s eyes. It doesn’t track the light, although it does snuffle when Chris slides the bolt open. Chris gently places the bowl in the cage, and moves the water bowl away from the wolf’s head lest it moves and spills it. The blanket is still mostly over the wolf, and he tugs it back to check the wound. Deep black bands still stain the flesh, sections of the wound still weeping, although other parts have finally begun to heal correctly. Good enough. 

 

The wolf whines, perhaps from Chris’ movements. Hesitantly Chris’ hand hovers over its flank, before he lets his hand furrow through the thick fur. It’s soft, softer than he could imagine. He has never gotten this close to a wolf before, supernatural or otherwise. Most Alpha shifted wolves they had taken down shifted back to human as they die. As if a final challenge for their killer to look at what they’ve done. He runs his hand up the beast’s side, the fur sticking up as it’s pushed the wrong direction. Delicately he fingers over the ears, and rubs a thumb in the valley between the animal’s eyes.

 

“It’s strange how beautiful something that brings such ugliness can be.” He whispers, the animal whines again, and Chris’ hand grips the fur of its neck just in case. A mere reaction, a pointless one. Nothing that simple could hold it back. But the wolf doesn’t move, its mouth still lax. 

 

“I think one of us is going to get hurt before all of this is over.” He promises. At this point he’s not wholly certain if it shouldn’t be him. But those are thoughts for another day, another patrol, another body in the woods, another night stocking a pantry.

  
_ Like clockwork.  _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings:  
> animals being gutted/plucked for food. visible misery and depression by chris.  
> \--------------  
> And there you go! Thank you for following my fic, please comment what you thought (:


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